


Robert Frost to Aristotle, Unicorns to Quintapeds

by TciddaEmina



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M, Steter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TciddaEmina/pseuds/TciddaEmina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slytherins have sleepovers, firsties are insomniacs, and Fifth years are thieves. Slash. Steter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Robert Frost to Aristotle, Unicorns to Quintapeds

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if any characters as OOC or the dialogue is a bit off, its my first time writing for the Teen Wolf fandom (and I havem't exactly seen the Canon, just read a tonne of fanfiction). No beta so excuse any mistakes that have slipped past me. Enjoy ~~~!

In the end it all came down to their head of house. No matter the student's vehement arguments against it, Professor Harris merely brushed them aside with an oily smirk and a smug response of 'House Unity' and 'Tradition.' Not that he particularly cared about either of those, he just enjoyed making the students miserable.

It didn't help that he'd somehow managed to get all the other teachers to agree with him, encouraging them to enforce this suffering upon their Houses too. Maybe it was an activity the Hufflepuffs would enjoy, I mean that's what they were all about wasn't it? Socializing. Hanging out. Painting each other nails and all the other things thirteen year old girls did together.

… Like sleepovers.

Stiles may be just a first year but even he realized that shoving an entire house of proud, cunning and mostly filthy rich eleven to seventeen year olds together in a room and telling them to get along before locking them in for the night wasn't the best idea. At least it was gender separated. Stiles didn't think he would be able to handle seeing one of the older students getting it on with their girlfriend, as some upper year jerk would undoubtedly take the chance to do. Gross.

It had been announced by the principal after dinner a couple of days ago, much to the vocal chagrin of the older students. A 'house bonding, friend making experience' he had called it, then proceeded to ignore how loudly a majority of the students railed against the announcement.

So it was that on the first weekend of the school year Stiles and all the other first year Slytherins found themselves being herded along by a grouchy prefect, following behind the complaining mass of teenagers that made up the rest of their house. 

They were led to a room on the seventh floor, one that was actually quite cool, for all that it was a torture chamber. Large padded platforms floated out the room at different heights, seeming to float through the sky due to a clever charm on the room – the same one that had been cast on the ceiling of the Great Hall to make it imitate the sky.

There'd been a bit more grumbling as the students were split into small randomly assigned groups. Apparently it wasn't enough to force them into close contact with one another, but they couldn't even be with their friends – not that Stiles really had any in Slytherin. No, the title of 'Stiles Stilinski's only friend' was still awarded to Scott. Who Stiles had missed seeing recently, his friend had been sorted into Gryffindor.

It figured that when Stiles finally managed to make a friend who didn't think he was a complete retard that they'd be sorted into enemy houses.

Stiles ended up on one of the higher platforms, surrounded by a couple of upper years who had deemed him beneath their notice, muggleborn that he was. It didn't bother him overmuch, he just got out his book. Flicking through the pages before settling on reading about the growth and development of Quintapeds. Which were awesome, and apparently ate people. Maybe he could set one on Harris, or that jerk Whittemore who had somehow followed Stiles into Slytherin.

In total there five people on his platform. Him, two mean looking seventh years, a bored fifth year and a supposedly studious sixth year, who, like Stiles, had settled himself down with a book for some studying. Or at least that's what he looked like he was doing. Considering that every once in a while he giggled lowly, his cheeks flushed a blotchy red, Stiles thought it was more likely he had spelled some porn into the cover of an ordinary book and was reading that.

Stiles spent the entire time reading, being ignored, and ignoring everyone else it turn. Lights out came fairly quickly, not that it did him much good. This whole sleepover thing had messed up his Adderall schedule, meaning that even now, after everyone else had already been asleep for hours, Stiles was still unable to get to sleep.

He'd finished his book about an hour ago, which was a shame, because it was actually interesting. The only other books he had were his textbooks, which, while mildly interesting – because magic, dude – he'd already mostly read. Stiles probably could have re-read them, done some proper studying for potions - because Harris was even worse in the classroom than he was out of it - but he got distracted when he discovered the spell lumos could come in different colors.

That was pretty much how he ended up, at three am and surrounded by sleeping teenagers, creating an assortment of multicolored lights. Small dim ones though, because while he may not be a genius he knew better than to awaken sleeping dragons, or seniors. So far he had managed all the colors of the rainbow, in order and backwards too, and a choice of horrible pinks, puke greens, burnt oranges, and a truly terrible puce. Stiles swore he would have nightmares about that puce.

Now he was working on making shapes with the light, rather than just ambiguous floating balls. That last one, dirty yellow in color, may have been a flower. Or a spiky blob, Stiles was undecided. He tried for a butterfly, and got sort of stretched shape. An attempt at something simpler, a square, received none more satisfactory results.

Stiles scowled at the floating light, huffing an annoyed breath out his nose. Tired red eyes squinted at it before he dismissed it with a small flick of his wand. Better but not what he wanted.

A sound made him jump, his wand snapping to the source of the noise. It was one of the upper years, the disinterested fifth year who'd spent the entire time lazing about and teasing the seventh years with sharp quiet words and pointed superior smirks. Stiles had made a conscious effort to stay out of his way when he noticed. Not that it was very difficult, he'd seemed amused enough by the increasingly affronted seventh years to not pay Stiles much attention.

Small muffled whimpers were coming from the sleeping fifth year and his hands were clawing frantically at his sheets. His heart thudded loudly in his chest as Stiles slipped from his own bed, hesitant footsteps carrying him across the padded floor of the platform to the other boy. As he drew closer he could see the clammy sheen of sweat that covered the boy's skin, how his face was distorted into a pained grimace.

Nightmare, Stiles realized.

Should he wake him up? Wasn't that what you were supposed to do when someone was having a nightmare, wake them up? 

It was what his mother used to do for him, whenever he'd had nightmares. Shake him awake and hold him close until his hands stopped shaking and his breaths evened out. She'd get cocoa and make hot chocolate, let him sit on her lap as he drank and tell him little stories until he started to fall asleep again. Dad wasn't as good at it, he never made the hot chocolate right and always ended up falling asleep before Stiles did.

Stiles didn't think the fifth year would appreciate him giving him hot chocolate and telling him stories, but the point still stands. Should he wake him up? What if he was violent? Or got angry at Stiles? 

But... he couldn't just leave him. Not when the dream looked so bad.

Slowly he inched forward, his hand cautiously rising up. The fifth year's breathing was harsh, and Stiles could feel it against his skin as his hand drew closer to the boy's shoulder. Taking a deep breath Stiles quickly reached out and grasped the boy's shoulder, feeling the overheated dampness of his sweat through the shoulder of his pajamas.

He gave the boy's shoulder a quick rough shake and danced back when immediately the fifth year shot up. Fiery blue eyes turned on him, zeroing in on him and pinning him to the spot. Stiles stopped breathing, paralyzed.

They stayed like that for a moment, wide frightened brown meeting harsh unleashed blue. Stiles didn't move, couldn't move. He was pinned in place by those eyes, a butterfly pinned to a display. Slowly they tempered, raging emotion sliding back into cool collection and heavy, panicked breaths calming. 

The fifth year turned his head away, running a hand through his dark, sweat mussed hair and sighing loudly. Stiles sucked in a deep breath, released from his paralyzed state. He bit his lip, panicking for a moment on what to do next.

“Um...” He whispered, keeping his eyes on the blue padded floor, “you're awake now so. I'll just, um, go. Bye!” He turned to go, already taking a step away from the bed.

And, no, his voice did definitely not squeak on that last word. Not at all. Who dares say it did? You? Well it was just your imagination, so there.

“Wait.” The voice cut through Stiles retreat. 

Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap. Crrrraaaaappppp. What if he actually was angry? What if he wanted to know why Stiles was awake? What if he was planning on killing Stiles because Stiles, I dunno, saw him in 'a moment of weakness' and now he had to dispose of the evidence it ever happened?

“You're Stiles right? Stilinski?” The boy asked.

Stiles span about. “How do you know my name? Is there some, like, magic thing that let you know eveyones names? Oh, my God. Are you stalking me? Are you a stalker? Do you stalk people?”

Stiles was going to die. His creepy stalker person was going to do horrible things to him and then feed his body to the giant squid. And how did he get a stalker? Weren't stalkers supposed to only stalk girls and celebrities and stuff? Like there was some stalker law saying 'thee shall only stalk the beautiful and vulnerable.' Not that girls were weak and vulnerable. Not at all, girls were down right terrifying.

“Yes, Stiles, of course I've been stalking you. It's a hobby of mine to stalk pre-pubescent boys like you.” The fifth year said with a exaggerated leer. “No, you idiot. They said your name at the sorting ceremony, remember?”

“Oh...”Stiles said, thinking it over and feeling like a bit of an idiot. “You could still be a stalker, though.”

“I'm not.” 

“That's what a stalker would say.” Stiles persisted, hand coming up to point an accusing finger at the boy. He probably looked ridiculous, but whatever. Finding out if you're being stalked before dignity, it was a code Stiles lived by. Or should live by. Or would live by from now on.

The fifth year just raised an eyebrow. He slid from his bed, and Stiles stumbled backwards at the sudden proximity. He smirked at Stiles. “It's what an innocent person would say too.”

“Okaaaayyyy then.” Stiles said awkwardly. The fifth year kept coming closer, and Stiles thought that putting some distance – a lot of distance – between them would be much better for his general health and welfare.

He started to turn away again when his brain decided it wanted to do something else entirely. Stiles turned back around. “What were you dreaming about?”

Not a good question. Actually probably a really crap 'should not be asked right now, or at all really' question. Oh well, he was curious. 

The smirk melted of the boy's face, his eyes sharp. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, um. Because... Because I'm doing a project on nightmares for extra credit in divination?” Stiles tried.

The fifth year just stared at him, face completely deadpan. “Stiles you're a first year - you don't take divination.”

“How do you know? Maybe I'm secretly a divination expert, Trelawney's secret apprentice. Maybe it runs in my family, like inbreeding.” Smooth, Stiles, smooth. Remind the guy whose probably a pureblood that tonnes of those families probably inbreed.

“Stiles you're a muggleborn. You aren't a seer.” The boy said.

“Ok then, fine. I was curious. Ok? Because it look really stuffed up and horrible and I wanted to know what it was.”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” The boy said, smile returning. It was colder, less amused than the last one. Although considering the last one had been a smirk because the guy had been mocking him... yeah. That smile probably hadn't been that great after all. Then again the fifth year seemed to be a jerk so it was probably the best it got.

“So?” Stiles asked.

“So what?”

“So what was your nightmare about?”

“Unicorns.” The boy said.

“Liar.” Stiles said immediately, peering through the dark of the room to get a better look at the boy. He was smirking. Smugly, the bastard. Definitly lieing.

“Nope, its true. Giant evil rainbow unicorns. They were spearing me with their horns and eating my flesh.”

“No really, what was your dream about?” Stile asked again, the corner of his lip twitching up into a smile. Whatever, it wasn't like he was enjoying talking to another person because Scott was too busy being a 'cool' Gryffindor and mooning over that Ravenclaw chick – Alison? - to really hang out with Stiles as much. Not at all. He wasn't enjoying it in the least.

“Oh, the unicorns were terrible. They left blood soaked sparkles wherever they went. Glitter too. Their glitter making hooves trampled me to death even as they covered me in the stuff.”

“Sounds tragic.” Stiles agreed, finally giving into the boy's lie. 

“I was, I assure you.” The fifth year said, his smirk slowly growing into a toothy grin. Bit creepy, but who was Stiles to judge?

“How assuring.” He grinned back.

“What about you?”

Stiles jerked a bit, eyebrows rising. “Me?”

“Yeah, what were you dreaming about?” 

“Um, nothing. I wasn't asleep.”

The boy chuckled. “A firstie like you, up all night while the upper years sleep? What is the world coming to?”

“The apocalypse, according to the Mayan calender”

“Some say the world will end in fire / some say in ice...”

“Robert Frost, Fire and Ice” Stiles snapped with a quirk of his lips.

“Very good. And which do you favor?”

Stiles smiled at him. “From what I know of desire / I hold with those who favor fire. What about you?”

“I think I know enough of hate / to say that for destruction ice / is also great / and would suffice. Fire's... not really my thing anymore.”

His eyes were old. Old and deep and sad and Stiles really didn't like it. It was how his dad's eyes had looked after the mum's funeral. Stile hated it when people's eyes looked like that, because when they did he knew they were sad, they were in pain, and that he could do almost nothing to help.

“I get that. Being a victim of stalking was never really my thing. Its all the malingering in dark corners and staring, vaguely threatening notes slipped into your bag, secret creepy photos taken without you knowing...”

“You're an insufferable, paranoid little thing aren't you?” The fifth year huffed a laugh. His eyes were still sad, but less hurt, less... lost. There might be almost nothing Stiles could do to help but, thankfully, something Stiles could do was distract people.

“All part of my charm. I mean, you're still here aren't you?”

“I wonder why.”

Stiles wondered why too. Nobody really liked him, apart from his family and Scott. Although to be fair both Scott and Melissa were both practically family anyway. So why this fifth years – whose name Stiles didn't even know – seemed to like Stiles enough to actually talk to him was a mystery.

“Maybe you're just a bored old creeper, secretly admiring my striking personality and rugged good looks.”

“Ah, that must be it. Such long luscious locks, the girls must be constantly swooning over them.”

Stiles ran a hand subconsciously over his short cropped hair, feeling the strange silky-spiky texture of the short hairs. He frowned to himself. What if that was another reason people thought he was weird? Because of his super short hair.

His thoughts must have shown on his face because the fifth year laughed, chuckling as he leaned back against his bed and crossed his arms over his chest. Stiles hadn't noticed before how muscled the other boy was but was forced to admit, when two strong toned arms where shoved into his immediate line of vision, that the fifth year was fit. Like, run two laps of the lake every morning, work out four times a week, fit.

And, God, was he really thinking that? Was he, an eleven year old, thinking about how muscled and... fit a fifteen year old boy was? Oh, God, he wasn't crushing was he? Tell him he wasn't crushing.

“You're not crushing.” The fifteen year old in question said, sounding quite amused at his expense Stiles might add.

Stiles did a double take and whispered, “I just said all that out loud didn't I?”

“Yes.” 

“Shit.” He buried his face in his hands, his face hot. “I'm just going to go sleep now. Like right now, over there, away from you. This never happened, comprende? On pain of death we will never speak of this again.”

Stiles didn't wait for an answer, hurrying across the platform to bury himself under his duvet and hopefully die of oxygen deprivation. He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his face into his pillow.

About a minute later he surfaced for breath, face even more flushed as he gasped for breath. He found the fifth year standing over him, looming more like. Stiles closed his eyes and counted to five. The fifth year had not followed him, he was just imagining things.

He opened his eyes and sighed. “Not imagining it.”

“I'm offended, I would imagine that all people hope to see me standing over their beds in the night, reading to creep in and torment them all night long.”

Stiles wheezed. It was a dying sound, like one you might get from sort of half dead rodent succumbing to poison. “Most people might take that the wrong way. Luckily for you I am already informed of your creeper stalking habits and know that you plan to slowly torture me to death. Not... anything else.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” The boy smirked.

“Yeah, right. Go. Be away with thee, foul beastie.”

The fifth year ignored that last part. “You intrigue me.”

“You could be intrigued from over there. Far far away from me.” Stiles said, throwing up a hand to point haphazardly at the side of the platform that held the other boy's bed.

“But that wouldn't be nearly as fun.”

“Yes it would. It would be super fun. 'Woah look its a party' fun. 'I'm on the other side of the Earth, away from Stiles' fun. See? Epically fun.”

“Now you're grasping at straws. Such a shame that your potential for intelligent conversation faded so fast. First killer sparkly unicorns, then Robert Frost... I had half hoped we would somehow stumble into a debate on the ethics of nuclear warfare or the works of Faulkner, dreadful boring bastard that he is.”

“Haven't read Faulkner, so already that particular wish has fallen through.”

The boy didn't let Stiles deter him, lounging himself across the empty side, or vast majority of it if Stiles were completely honest, of the bed. Stiles was, after all, only eleven. And when you put an eleven year old in a queen sized four poster bed you ended up with a lot of room left over. Room that the fifth year seemed to have no problem stealing for himself.

“Woah, woah, woah. Personal space! This bed is my bed. Stiles' bed. Get off!” Stiles flailed.

The fifth year ignored him.

“I'm sure we would have found some other topic to talk about. The ethics behind nuclear war is still open to us, after all.”

“I'd rather be eaten by a Quintaped.” Stiles grumbled, picking up his pillow and covering his head with it. He didn't want to see the stupid fifth year with his stupid smirk and stupid muscles. He didn't have a crush on him.

And denial wasn't a river in Egypt, but Stiles was choosing to ignore that at the moment too. 

“That could be arranged.”

Stiles head shot up, his pillow flying off. He stared at the fifth year, eyes wide with apprehension and jaw slack. He wouldn't. …Would he? Oh God, would he actually truly feed Stiles to a Quintaped? Sure they were epic but that didn't mean Stiles wanted to be eaten by one. He was too young and pretty to die!

“...” He tried to say something but all that came out of his mouth was air.

The boy grinned at him, shifting down so he reclined next to Stiles, head supported by his hand. His free hand came up, smoothing over the short hair's on Stiles' head. Stiles didn't blush. Nor did he look away. He didn't. Or at least he tried not to, Stiles knew that he failed, at least a bit. That was a bit... intimate.

“Don't worry, Stiles,” He smiled, the jerk,“you amused me far too much for me to just feed you to whatever predator happens to come by, five-legged or not.”

Somehow he managed to sound sincere and affectionate without being the least bit reassuring. It was probably a skill he practiced on all his victims, something Stiles was increasingly starting to think he was. A victim that is, not a skill. How a person could even be a skill Stiles didn't know, but it sounded difficult and vaguely painful.

“Well at least I'm comes in good hands when it comes to someone choosing my epitaph. Make sures its something appropriately grand and gloomy.”

“There is no great genius without a mixture of madness, that should do. Fits you to a tee. Smarts and spastic nature both.”

“Don't quote Aristotle at me. And don't you dare say that anywhere near my grave. I might be genius compared to a creeper like you but I'm not crazy. You haven't managed to steal my sanity.”

“Yet.” The fifth year stated confidantly.

And wasn't that a scary implication?

Stiles just sighed grumpily, turning away from him. “You haven't managed to steal anything from me yet. And you don't seem annoying enough for it to just happen from spending time in your presence. Unless you torture me or something I don't see how you could do it.”

“Haven't been able to steal anything have I?” The boy smirked. He rolled of the bed, quickly making his way around and crouching next to the bed, right in front of Stiles.

“What about your smile, I stole that earlier didn't I? Made you laugh and smile?” The boy questioned, leaning forward until his chin rested on the bed, face less than a foot from Stiles own.

Stiles blushed a bit, huffing. It was true, the other boy had made him laugh, not that he would ever admit it.

“And your blush, I stole that too. Your... crush.” He continued.

“N-no, you didn't.” Stiles denied shakily. He didn't have a crush on him. Did not!

“Oh, really?” The fifth year smirked. “Muscles.”

Stiles blushed, curse his betraying body! He didn't say anything. It was bad enough that wound had been reopened, no need to rub a layer of salt into it too. Thankfully the other boy needed no response continuing on without prompting.

“And now I'll steal something else from you, too.”

“What?” Stiles squawked, jerking upright. 

A finger pressed against his lips, hushing him. Stiles felt his face heat, impossibly, more at the contact. He was sure that his blush stretched from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

The fifth year just smirked his irritating smirk, his finger disappearing as, in a flash, he leaned forward to press his lips to Stiles' in a chaste kiss. It was barely a brush of the lips, but it seemed to go on forever. 

Stiles arms flailed about for a moment, unsure what to do before the boy finally drew back, self satisfied smile firmly in place. He began to object when the boy smoothly cut in.

“And now I've stolen your first kiss too.”

With that he turned around, leaving Stiles to gape openly at his retreating back before he finally managed to get control of himself.

“Wait!” He called out quietly.

The fifth year paused, turning his head to look back at Stiles over his shoulder. He quirked an eyebrow in question and Stiles stuttered to comply.

“What's your name?”

The boy chuckled. “All this time and you didn't know?”

“... yeah.”

“Well I suppose since I did steal your first kiss it would be remiss of me not to tell you the name of your beloved thief.”

Beloved thief. Stiles snorted.“And?”

“Peter Hale, kid, expect to see more of me in future.”

Stiles had no response to that than, “As long as you don't steal anything else.”

“Oh, Stiles, you know that's a promise I could never keep. I told you, you're intriguing.” Peter said with a wink.

Stiles let himself collapse back into his bed face first. What the fuck had he gotten himself into now?


End file.
